Wake Up
by Kyo-chan
Summary: The Philosopher's Stone isn't magic, it's a curse the color of blood. It grants the user not only the power, but also the price of which it was made. Find your soul in the morass, for once you've claimed the Stone, it will try to swallow you whole.


He always stayed back when the hunting was finished. Unlike the men who accompanied his father, he didn't leave his steed and hounds at the stable to go inside and smoke and gossip. No, he lingered out at the paddock, took the time to brush down the mare, give her water and walk her before making sure she was fed. By then he would have missed the crowd in the kitchen, and he could see to his own food. The businessmen had moved on to his father's study, and he nodded to the cook as he passed, washing his hands at the sink and fixing himself a plate. He took it to his room and enjoyed a long, hot shower before settling at his desk with the food and the morning paper.

He let out a sigh for the simplicity of it all, thinking he probably should have made an appearance, listen to the stock market banter, trades and investments. But it was always the same, grown men talking about their accomplishments, boasting in carefully couched conversation, smoking their cigars and drinking their brunch-time whiskey. Zolf grew bored of the monotony of it, caring not to explain to anyone why he felt an increasing desire to walk away from it all. He was the Kimblee heir, the one who would take over the business when his father retired, the one his mother was already talking about marriage prospects to. Of course, it would be an arranged marriage. In their society, it was all about making the strongest connections, building empires, streaming money like water into the horse trough. It bored him to death. He felt more kinship with the hounds they hunted with than the men that rode alongside him.

Long, elegant fingers plucked at the early edition while he ate, blue eyes skimming over the articles with little interest…until he spotted a headline that made him stop short.

**"Suspect Arrested for the Murder of Brigadier General Maes Hughes"**

Kimblee's throat went dry, and he sat forward in his chair, food forgotten as he began to read the article, hearing it in his mind in a voice that wasn't familiar to him. It detailed a gruesome murder, a good man bleeding out from a single gunshot in a phone booth right on Central's military base. And the suspect was another soldier, a young woman he didn't recognize from the war, too young, maybe a little too green, but that hadn't stopped her from killing one of the most intelligent men Zolf had ever had the privilege to meet. His blood went from ice to fire in a matter of moments.

_Wake up_.

He pushed the paper aside, disgusted and no longer interested in his lunch or anything that might have been happening elsewhere. As if his feet carried him of their own accord, he walked to his closet, opening the door. Everything was black, rows of black as if stepping into the space dulled out all the light in his world, leaving only a slim cut of it from the open door. All of it black, all of it dark, with a damp feeling creeping over his skin. All of it except for two things. One he recognized immediately, the pristine royal hue of the military uniform, one he'd worn proudly in Ishval right up until they'd called him in to take the—

**_Wake_**_ up_.

Behind the uniform was a stark white suit, expensive materials, tailored to him, one of his favorites. He drew closer, running his fingers down one sleeve, suppressing a chill that went down his spine. He frowned. Nothing made sense, as if he'd walked into a prison, trapped with only two points of color. Zolf drew in a deep breath. _There's work to do. _He closed his eyes, once more reaching out.

**_Wake up._**

When his eyes opened, he was still in darkness, sitting on a hard surface, his hands bound before him. The first thing he noticed was the taste of blood on his tongue, but it wasn't his own. No, it came from the shard between his teeth, whispers that had been silenced for so long while he was living his old life starting up again as if welcoming him back. He dismissed their presence, looking around with a frown at the prison cell, a single block of light coming from the tiny barred window in the door. His senses were groggy, but they were coming back in quick bursts of memory – destruction in the desert sun, the glorious song of his alchemy, and a dark promise whispered by a man with the power to rule the country. _"Your time will come."_

A key scraped in the lock to his cell, and his head turned to it with a slow smile starting to creep across his face. It seemed that time was now.

_There's work to do_.


End file.
